


The Matriarch

by Missoutontheprize



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Friendship/Love, Gen, Multi, Other, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missoutontheprize/pseuds/Missoutontheprize
Summary: Frigid Bitch. Champagne Socialist. Manhattan Princess. Honey Badger. Pinkie.Siobhan Roy has been nicknamed a lot of things by the men around her, but even those who love her most overlook one label: the glue.Five times Shiv gets thrust into the role of caretaker, and how she responds.
Relationships: Siobhan "Shiv" Roy & Family, Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Kudos: 34





	The Matriarch

**2003**

“Yeah, sweetie, seventh floor, I’ll walk you to the suite once you’re here.” 

Baird Kellman shoves his phone back in his pocket, tapping his fingers on the nurse station counter and staring straight at the elevator, waiting for his flame-haired goddaughter to emerge. Hearing the ring, he shuffles quickly across the waiting room, shielding her from the prying eye of any potential onlookers. 

“Will someone please tell me what happened?” She pleads, her voice shaky with emotion. He leads them to an empty set of seats, elevating her sandal-clad feet onto the coffee table. Dressed in a floral tank top and denim miniskirt, something he’d deem an odd choice for November if his own daughters didn’t do the same, he offers his blazer as a blanket. 

“Kendall and Rava were hit by an SUV at the intersection on Kennedy Street,” he said. “It hit the driver’s side, so your brother got most of the impact, but Rava is looking at a few broken ribs. He’ll need some time but he’s going to make it.” 

Baird starred into the blue-green eyes of his boss’ fifteen-year-old, piercingly bright thanks to tears and smeared mascara too dark and heavy for her complexion. Her expression was inquisitive, combative, looking for something to pick apart and pin her frustration on, one he’d seen from countless times from Gerri in times of duress. 

“Is the car totaled?” She asked. 

“Yes.”

“Which one was it?”

“The Jaguar.”

“Which Jaguar?” 

“The black sedan.” 

“Shit, I was hoping to take that one for a spin once I got my license,” she said, and they shared a dark chuckle. 

“If you’re willing to sign a contract saying you won’t drive it strung out on booze or cocaine, I could probably talk your Dad into getting you one.” He was grateful for the opportunity to slip in the ugly details; putting a finger to his lips to signal that she not repeat it. 

“Did Kendall at least have the right of way?” 

“We’re reviewing the street cam footage but based on witness accounts, no, he didn’t.” 

“So are you here as my Dad’s friend or general counsel?”

“The answer is both. Always both.” They nodded solemnly at one another before he offered his hand to help her up, leading them in the direction of the more exclusive wing of the hospital. Baird bashfully suggested that she keep his blazer on to greet her Dad and brothers, and she begrudgingly agreed. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Roman asks as she steps through the door. 

“Out,” she said, refusing to volunteer more information. “When did your life get so boring you could just rush to the hospital on a Saturday night?” 

She sat down next to him on the sofa, utilizing the large blanket folded next to it to drape over both of them. Shiv leaned against the arm of the couch and allowed her barely older brother’s head to collapse onto her shoulder. Not because they needed comfort or human contact but because they were simply tired. Kendall’s cocaine habit was a longstanding problem in their family, older than the Waystar production company even. No reason to get emotional. 

“Has anyone called Mom?” She asked.

“Middle of the night her time, Baird had Gerri send an email.” 

“Then she’s in the loop. Good enough.” 

She squints to get a better look at Kendall through the glass barrier, her view obscured by her father and what looks to be a detective. He is beat up; his face bruised, shoulder in a sling, leg casted and suspended in midair. 

“Is Dad trying to get him out of a DUI?”

“Worse. Rava’s parents are pissed to high hell and he’s trying to concoct some story that protects us from any sort of civil suit.”

“Has anyone seen her since it happened?”

“Connor’s talking to her, probably convinced that he can solve this by making her fall in love with him.”

They both let out a loud laugh at his joke, allowing them a moment of unadulterated fun. The detective looks up from his notepad inquisitively. They straighten up. 

“Not to sound like a Hallmark commercial but at least everyone is alive.” When she got the call from Baird she understood how a person could faint; ears ringing, vision blurring, head spinning. The feeling was horrific. 

“Yeah, but had Ken hit something other than a SUV we’d be looking at a Roy-style Chappaquiddick.”

“That’s our big brother, Waystar Royco’s heir apparent,” she sighed.

“Harvard Business mogul, ready to revolutionize man,” Roman does the peace sign, taking on the voice of a stereotypical pothead. Not a particularly good impression of Kendall, but funny. 

Roman shifted against her, laying down a little bit and locking his arms around her waist. She adjusted her legs onto the sofa and rested her head against the couch cushion. Despite being two years younger, she’d spent most of her life the same size or taller than the ever-petite Roman. Both troubled sleepers, their au pair began placing them in the same crib when they were one and three respectively, hoping it would bring everyone a little bit of peace. The idea worked, and while this might make them the most weirdo, fucked up, developmentally arrested billionaire brats to ever live, they relished the calm they were feeling too much to acknowledge their Dad’s befuddled stare. 

“Are you okay?” She asked in a whisper, the weight of the night beginning to suffocate her. 

“I will be,” he said. “It was just…really ugly, at the house and before the detective got here. Dad was really losing it, ranting like a maniac about a thousand different things. I can’t do anything when he’s like this.”

“I know.” 

“But hey, like you said, everyone’s going to live.” 

“I did say that,” she agreed, hoping it would come to mean something. 

**2005**

_Marilyn Bennett Roy was a dancer, scholar, artist, and philanthropist. A lifelong New Yorker, Marilyn developed a taste for the arts at an early age thanks to frequent visits to the ballet with her late mother Joan. This enthusiasm would prompt her to create the Roy Endowment Creative New York Foundation, more commonly known as RECNY, with her ex-husband Logan Roy in 1975. In her spare time she enjoyed painting, swimming, and spending time with her family. She is survived by her beloved son Connor Roy, ex-husband Logan Roy, and numerous nieces, nephews, cousins, and cherished friends. She will be missed beyond words._

Shiv skimmed over the obituary printed on the back of the funeral program once more, cramming in all relevant details. There weren’t many, unfortunately, noting the massive gap of information about the middle of her life. She reached to squeeze Connor’s arm, the two of them rising from the pews of St. Patrick’s Cathedral to greet the mourners.

If anyone asked she was “Logan’s daughter”, who was “so devastated he couldn’t be here today.” No follow-up comments on the fact that he actually wasn’t up to anything important. She stood in her black skirt and turtleneck, a little confining for her taste, and began the barrage of handshakes. 

“Would you be willing to do the obituary with me, baby sis?” Connor whispers. 

“Doesn’t everyone at this funeral already hate me? Didn’t your mom hate me?”

“My mom hated Kendall for stealing my birthright, she never thought anything of you.”

“That’s much better.”

“She knew that you’re my favorite sibling,” she looked into his sad eyes, and allowed herself to be manipulated. 

“I’ll stand by in case you start to freeze.” Connor enveloped her in a bear hug, appropriate as always. The two locked arms and walked into the chapel as a familiar hymnal began its instrumental. 

Sitting alone at the front of the church, Shiv contemplated fishing her sunglasses from her purse to detract onlookers, stopping only when she worried about the rustling noise. This was a bad idea. A really fucking bad idea. 

“My mother was an eccentric woman,” Connor began, gripping the paper in his hand. His face was contorted into something he might have thought passed for a smile, but was clearly a grimace. “Born not just into privilege but near aristocracy gave her a compulsion to find identity outside her family name. When I think of her, I’ll think of the optimism with which she lived her life, the cheer that drove her to a live of philanthropy,” he was choking up, resorting to boilerplate. Cheer and optimism were unwise descriptors for a woman who died in a psychiatric hospital, and the humble brag about his aristocratic roots was just weird. 

She trotted up to the stage and reached for Connor’s hand once again, squeezing gently as the tears began to pour out of his eyes. She really wasn’t up for this. She wasn’t here to give an obituary, to stand in front of Marilyn’s friends and watch their botoxed faces contort in disgust as they noticed her resemblance to Logan. She didn’t want any of it, but the fear in her brother’s usually punchable face was enough to sway her. She quickly skimmed the paper for a starting point to no avail, the weight of everyone’s stares overwhelming her nervous system.

“Hi,” she smiled at the crowd, quickly closing her mouth to a more somber expression. Damn it that was inappropriate. “For those of you who don’t know I’m Siobhan, Connor’s half-sister,” she looked over at her brother, watching him silently beg her to continue. 

“I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Marilyn, but I do know Connor, and I do know my Dad, so I can only assume that his pleasant personality came from her.” The crowd chuckled, and the temptation to turn this into a Logan Roy roast was overwhelming. 

“If I were to guess, I’d wager that Marilyn was an idealist. A woman with the rare ability to see the world and she hoped it’d be rather than how it was,” Not how it should be, she made a point not to say, remembering her brother’s newfound libertarianism. 

“Warm, sweet, fun, and outgoing, her beauty and charisma no doubt made a permanent impression on the New York social scene. It seems, however, that her light was not long for this harsh world.” Oh, how she hoped this cliché bullshit would work. 

“But even though her light went out she left some of it behind, not only in her charity work but in her son, Connor, who I’m proud to call my favorite brother.” 

He let out a sob at that, and she realized in that second that he actually meant the last part. She went on for another few minutes, herself resorting to generics she could not remember. She watched as the audience smiled and wiped their eyes as she monologued, and once she ran out of ideas brought it to a canned conclusion. They made it. Connor gripped her arm as they stepped off the pulpit, and the handshakes she began the day with escalated to full-blown embraces. 

The following Monday, a flattering picture of her taken at the memorial was featured in the Lifestyle section of The New York Times. 

**2009**

In rare moments of honest reflection, Logan Roy would tell his children that no good news ever came from a late night phone call, but to answer anyways or face a lifetime of regret. 

When Shiv’s ringtone blares at 3:37 in the morning, she swears she felt her heart palpitate. 

“Rava, is everything alright?” She clears her throat, voice husky from sleep. 

“Hi, Shiv,” she greets, her voice uncharacteristically high. “Everything’s okay, but I think I might need you to come with me to the hospital.” 

Oh, right, she thinks to herself as her mind starts to wake up. Her sister-in-law was heavily pregnant, full term in fact, and she was soon going to have a nephew. It was damn near all her father could talk about these days, the impending birth of an heir, never mind that they already had Sophie. 

“Do you think you might be in labor?” Also, what’s it to me if you are, she thought, but chose not to say out loud. 

“I know I am, my contractions have been coming pretty steadily for about an hour. I just got off the phone with Kendall, and he’s hoping to get on a flight as soon as he finishes his presentation.” 

Her brilliant brother had flown out to speak at some new media conference in Stockholm, because that’s something reasonable people do when their wife is 37 weeks pregnant and mother to a one year old. He’d texted her last week asking if she could come to his house and keep an eye on the staff while they were at the hospital, but missed the larger hypothetical. Chances are he’d need some extra time to dry out from the likely copious amounts of cocaine coursing through his bloodstream, but both women knew that was better left unsaid. 

“I know it’s weird, and probably something you have less than no desire to do, but I would really appreciate having a familiar face with me until Kendall gets here and you’re the only person I could think to call at this hour.” Her voice was beginning to shake, and against her better judgment she gave the driver directions to her apartment. She quickly applied her make-up and found herself some comfortable clothes, which just so happened to include a light blue cable knit sweater. Not because she was the least bit excited or anything, but because it just happened to be what was there. Plus, there might be pictures. 

“Aren’t we putting in some extra effort tonight?” Rava smiled, her tone reminiscent of the one she used on Sophie. 

“I always look this put together,” she retorted. “And it’s morning.” 

The two sat in silence for the entirety of the car ride and hospital admissions process, Shiv stopping to text Kendall a passive aggressive update on his growing family. Rava was progressing quickly, she soon realized, and she demanded the anesthesiologist administer an epidural to avoid bearing witness to a full-fledged NatGeoWild documentary. 

“Connor told me that Kendall was hoping I could go without it,” she said, clearly enjoying the medicine’s relief. 

“Well, he is a puritan when it comes to drugs.”

“Fuck off,” Rava said through gritted teeth, and while Shiv was in a bitchy mood she decided to pipe down. 

“They just have a lot of stock in this kid, legacy and all that. Want him born the medieval way,” Shiv said, dabbing Rava’s sweaty forehead with a cold washcloth. They smirked at one another, the tension temporarily diffused. 

“I hate that but I also signed up for it, you know?” Shiv did. 

In the hours that passed, Shiv came to know Rava more intimately than her college boyfriend, but peace came with the birth of Iverson Collingwood Roy, the most pretentiously named baby in America. The doctor, mistaking her for Rava’s partner, had Shiv cut the umbilical cord. Per Rava’s request she accompanied the nurse as the baby was weighed and measured, cringing at his inability to hold still or stop crying. The poor kid was definitely a Roy. Still fussy, she brought the newly swaddled Iverson back to an exhausted Rava. 

She sat at the foot of the bed, watching mother and son turn into a sentimental stock photo. She wondered if Caroline ever gazed at her children like this when they were babies, if anyone did. The thought put a knot in her stomach.

“I wish Kendall were here but I’m not sure I could have done this without you,” Rava said, her gaze meeting hers. “You’re not particularly warm or friendly but you’re steady in a storm, which is just as valuable.” It was neither a compliment nor an insult, just brutal honesty, and it was refreshing. 

Shiv didn’t know what to say in response so she reached out to squeeze her hand, leaning over to kiss her nephew’s cheek. The two observed Iverson as Rava’s eyes slowly grew heavier, and after some hesitation she resigned herself to sleep. 

Shiv was running on what she guessed was adrenaline, and not wanting to lose that high decided to visit the Starbucks kiosk on the first floor. She could get a nurse to bring her coffee, though it wasn’t likely to be good, and she wasn’t entirely sure that walking around the hospital with a newborn patient was in line with protocol, but it’d been a long day and she was itching to break a rule. Pulling out her phone, she took a picture of herself that would one day be printed in his baby book under ‘Iverson’s First Adventure”. She even had the barista get a photo of her holding Iverson and a latte. Turns out adrenaline turned her into a bit of a ham. This must be what it’s like to live as Roman. 

Returning to the maternity suite, which would pass for a charming weekend resort if not for the smell of disinfectant, she found her wanderlust brother sitting in silence, his eyes transfixed on his wife. 

“Hey Ken,” she whispered, placing her things down slowly so as not to jostle Iverson. The air had changed in her ten-minute absence, tension beginning to fill the room. She wasn’t sanctimonious or frankly concerned enough to be disappointed in Kendall, nor charitable enough to feel sorry for him. 

“Want to get a closer look at him?” 

“You’re offering me the chance to hold my kid like its some sort privilege to dole out?” 

“Shut up,” she knelt over Kendall’s chair to transfer Iverson into his father’s arms, surprised by the hallow sensation of them being freed of his weight. She had no desire to fill the fun aunt trope, frankly she couldn’t have cared less about her brother having a baby this time yesterday, but somewhere deep inside her she’d felt a jolt. 

“He’s beautiful,” Kendall said, and to her surprise Shiv genuinely agreed. “He got the Roy nose.” She’d noticed that too. 

“As well as our general aversion to getting wet,” she detailed the sobbing that came with his brief bath, which got her the slightest of smiles. 

Shortly thereafter Rava woke up to the sound of her brooding husband, realizing in that moment that she was not ready to see him. To her relief her young sister-in-law was still there to serve as buffer. 

“Did Shiv mention that she changed her first diaper today?” She asked to get their attention. Kendall walked quickly over to kiss her eyes, his eyes plagued by dark circles. Possibly withdrawal. Kendall gave a full smile at that announcement, remembering when she sat on the floor of the TV room and put them on her stuffed animals. Such a waste in retrospect. 

“That was a one time deal.” 

“Now that you’re here we should get a picture of you guys to give your Dad,” Rava suggested, and they reluctantly obliged. 

Feeling ham-like again, Shiv stood next to her brother and allowed herself to display her naturally wide smile, placing her arms around him and Iverson. Kendall, for a single second, mirrored his sister’s enthusiasm. 

The picture sits framed on both their nightstands to this day, though they’d never admit it to the other. 

**January 2021**

“Alright buddy, I need you to eat all that you can now because I’m not doing this in front of Grandpa.” 

Shiv sat in the driver’s seat of her car. The Audi, she mentally noted, not the horrific monstrosity that was the $125,000 ruby red Tesla minivan Tom had custom ordered for the family. If she managed to get moment alone with her Dad she might ask if he could get Ratfucker Sam to burn that thing to ashes. Ugliest thing she’d ever seen, and she’d dated some homely men. 

Liam Roy Wambsgans, her nearly two-month-old son, nursed contentedly at her chest. Contrary to her family’s opinion, the child in her arms wasn’t a “Save the Marriage Baby”, her attempt to trap Tom, Tom’s attempt to trap her, or Tom’s insurance policy for future alimony payments. Conceived on accident a month before New York City was sent into lockdown, her pregnancy managed to be an even bigger shock to her than global events. Shiv had panicked and Tom had held her, and that night they promised one another that their child would be born to parents that loved one another completely. Being locked away from the stresses of the outside world, mainly Waystar and her family, had helped that promise really come to fruition. 2020 had been the happiest year of her life, and had she had her way she’d make it permanent. But they couldn’t stay recluses forever, though she’d certainly prolonged it.

Tom gently tapped on the passenger side window, which unfortunately was enough to startle her these days, before letting himself in. 

Placing a warm hand on her shoulder, he leaned in to kiss her cheek, tickling Liam’s onesie covered foot. 

“Do you need my help bringing in the catering?” She nodded, pressing the button to open the SUV’s trunk. She heard him say something about how the van could be opened by the wave of a foot, smiling at his almost salesman like enthusiasm. Feeling her little boy go inert in her arms, she adjusted her top and moved him onto her shoulder before exiting the car. 

“I’m so sorry I scared you,” he said, shaking his head. She wished he wouldn’t apologize, wished he wouldn’t say anything about it. 

“It’s fine, Tom. It’s just my new normal, like everyone keeps talking about.” 

“Dr. Marcus doesn’t think it will be. You’re making good progress.” He’d uttered those exact same words to her, multiple times, during her sixteen hour labor, and she struggled not to retreat into reverie. She rests her head on his shoulder. They step into the elevator of the parking garage; grateful it will take them to straight to their penthouse. She hopes Tom remembered to double lock the door. 

The topic they danced around, and dare not mention by name, was postpartum anxiety, or postpartum OCD, depending on which specialist they were talking to. After nine months of promising not to be one of the dull, whiny, martyr mothers she’d watch her acquaintances pitifully turn into, while also silently praying that she loved her child enough to bring herself to do the woefully mundane things those women bitch about on a daily basis rather than outsource to a nanny, she found herself weighed down by a more complex problem. Even before his birth she so loved her little Liam, not the kissy-kissy, squealing, never known meaning until she saw his face kind of way, but my oh my she loved him. A love that consumed her, for both Liam and Tom. But with that love came fear. Crippling fear. 

She feared there’d be a gunman on the other side of the unlocked door ready to kill them on site or kidnap Liam for ransom. She feared waking up in the middle of the night to find her son dead of SIDS. She feared Mondale, the ever-gentle companion dog who had lovingly laid his large head on her pregnant stomach for months on end, marring him whenever she turned around. She feared her son being thrown from the car in collusion, hence today being her first time she’d driven since giving birth. She feared Tom being less attracted to her. She feared being a burden to him. She could hardly stand being around herself, this weak, pitiful, hyperactive helicopter mom, and would have deemed another woman describing this to her as whiny or dramatic, yet here she was. 

Step one of possibly becoming a normal person again was exposure therapy, which today came in the form of family brunch. Catered, but without staff, in part as a pandemic precaution but also because she had a very specific vision of what she wanted, no needed, the table to look like, and couldn’t trust anyone else be smart enough to do it. 

“What up, soccer mom?” Roman and Tabitha stood on the other end of the locked door of her apartment, a drink already in his hand. It wasn’t the glassware set she planned on using today; she’d have to find an excuse to fix it. In all the time she spent fearing an axe murderer she didn’t account for her relatives, whose keys she’d gladly confiscate. Thankfully, his voice didn’t cause her to jump. 

“You’re early,” she said as they greeted one another with kisses on the cheek, didn’t feel like the wisest of decisions but it was one day. She really wanted to seem completely normal in front of her family. 

“Do you need any help in the kitchen?” Tabitha asked her, though her face was fixated on Liam’s. 

“Careful, she’ll actually put you to work,” Tom said, playfully nudging his wife’s shoulder. 

“You could hold Liam and keep me company while I set up,” she smiled nervously, not totally liking the idea. She wasn’t particularly comfortable around Tabitha, easy as she was to get along with, and her range of conversations was far less dynamic post-pandemic. Tom smiled at the suggestion, and she wondered if he’d grown sick of being her only friend. She wouldn’t blame him. 

They walked to the kitchen, Mondale at her heels. Tom had always been his favorite, for obvious reasons, but the pregnancy had put them on equal playing ground, for her or Liam she didn’t know. 

“The photos really don’t do him justice,” she said, her hand grazing over his head of thick, dark brown hair. His large eyes were wide as he looked up at her, and Shiv wondered if he was in awe of her beauty or the novelty of being held by somebody besides his parents. 

“Even the best of cameras can’t capture how expressive he is,” she agreed. 

“Did you use a waist trainer to get your figure back?” Tabitha asked, taking a sip of her sparkling water. Shiv shook her head. 

“Liposuction?” She whispered, covering one of Liam’s ears as if it mattered. 

“No!” She whispered loudly, though she supposed it was a natural question. 

“Simmer down,” Tabitha scoffed. “You look really great is all, and I could use some pointers.”

“The last time you saw me was Thanksgiving, two days before I gave birth to a nine-and-a-half pound baby that Roman predicted would split me in half, which makes me seem thinner than I actually am.” The truth was that her anxiety had ruined her enjoyment of food and she only ate as a means to appease Tom and maintain her milk supply. Even with that she weighed twelve pounds less than before she got pregnant, which seemed unhealthy. Good thing unhealthy was synonymously with impressive in this particular context. She reprocessed Tabitha’s statement more carefully.

“That part about splitting in half doesn’t actually happen, right? It goes back to normal?” Shiv shushed her loudly then, not wanting Tom and Roman, sitting in uncomfortable silence, to overhear. 

“Not with hips like mine, no,” she begrudging answered, her cheeks burning. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a vulnerable topic,” she said. “None of my friends have lived through this and you obviously have, real recently I might add, and you’re already back to being hot.” Her statement made Shiv stand a little taller. 

“Why are you even asking about this? You and Roman aren’t…” she couldn’t fathom the notion.

“Remember my friend who couldn’t conceive?” She didn’t, had no clue why Tabitha would think she would, but could fill in the blanks. 

“You’re looking to be her surrogate?”

“I am her surrogate,” Tabitha beamed, so unabashedly happy that Shiv couldn’t help but smile back, offering her congratulations. 

“Please keep this between us,” she said. “Roman’s not ready to explain the situation to your Dad.” 

“If Mondale keeps looking at you like that Tom might figure it out,” she said, now noticing the way the he stared at her. A knock at the door disrupted the dog’s focus, and like Noah’s ark her family trickled in, two by two. 

Tom offered everyone a drink, confiscating Roman’s glass and pouring him one in Shiv’s pre-selected set. He downed the drink as he brought it to the kitchen sink, and Shiv squeezed his arm in silent gratitude. 

“This is beautiful, Siobhan,” Marcia said as they walked to sit down for lunch, both women’s arms locked around with Logan. To her surprise, the smell of food appealed to her. 

“Where’s my new grandson?” Logan asked, impatience in his voice. The image of her elderly father dropping her grandson onto her marble floor flashed into her mind, and she worked to take deep breaths. As if on cue, Liam and her husband came into her line of sight, and Logan’s eyes lit up. She could do this; she had to, for everyone’s sake. 

“What a big boy,” Logan smiled as Tom lowered him into his arms, his gaze alternating between his parents for reassurance. Shiv offered him her finger to squeeze while Tom took a seat next to her and offered his hand, which she promptly gripped. 

“Look at those round cheeks, Pop,” Connor said, reaching to pinch them before Willa swatted his hand. “Reminds me of Shiv, and the pictures I’ve seen of Grandma Helen.” Shiv watched as her father looked at him with the idea in mind, her heart softening when she saw what looked to be a glimmer of recognition. 

“I actually put together some photo books with some pictures of the last few generations of Roys, and tons of Liam, in case you want it,” Shiv offered. 

“That sounds wonderful, Siobhan,” Logan said. “I don’t always get the time to look at Tom’s email blasts.” 

“Did you see all the video I sent you out last week?” Tom asked. 

“If the subject line contained the word ‘Wombsgans’, then no, we did not,” Roman said. 

“Logan and I did see it Tom, it was lovely,” Marcia chimed in politely, for which Shiv was grateful. 

“Any of you thinking of knocking a girl up to steal your sister’s spotlight?” Logan asked, chuckling. Shiv saw Tabitha’s spine stiffen, and she shot her a pitying look. 

“Willa and I are actually looking into a surrogate,” Connor said, and Shiv could have almost burst into maniacal laughter. 

“A fucking what?” Logan asked, ignoring Marcia’s scolding him for swearing. 

“A surrogate, Dad,” Shiv cleared her throat, willing away any humor from her voice. “It’s a woman who carries another couples child for them.” 

“Like Sophie’s birth parents?” 

“No, Dad, the child would have their DNA. They extract embryos from the parents and implant them on the surrogate’s uterus.” Logan looked at her as if she’d just sworn in a foreign language. “It’s not a new practice,” she added. 

“I think your father is having a hard time with the unnaturalness of it all. It’s a very cold way to have a family,” Marcia said. 

“It’s just an option that we’re looking at,” Willa said, embarrassed. Marcia’s face soured in response. 

“Marcia, why don’t we leave our thoughts on any hypothetical Roys for another day?” Shiv asked, desperate to end the conversation. The whole table was either offended or confused, with Roman frozen in place. His brows furrowed at his sister, and the secret of Tabitha’s pregnancy began one of the thousands of non-verbal conversations the two had over the dinner table. 

“You’re right, Pinkie. Today we’re celebrating you.”

 _Thanks for saving our unnatural asses._ Tabitha would text her late that night, as Shiv enjoyed some leftover bread.

**2025**

“Siobhan, sweetheart,” Tom shook his wife’s shoulder, gently rousing her from sleep. “We’re here.”

Shiv’s eyes slowly opened, her head rising from against the car’s window. She blinked away tears, her father’s Summer Palace coming into view. Her Summer Palace, she mentally corrected herself, as of five days ago. 

“ATN coverage of the memorial service starts in about 45 minutes. Do you want me to set it up in the living room or the bedroom?” 

She looked back to examine her two children, three-year-old Josie and nearly five-year-old Liam, zonked out in their car seats. In an effort to avoid fussing, paparazzi, and traffic, the latter being the least likely as most were headed back into the city as Autumn drew near, Shiv and Tom piled their family into the horrific Tesla minivan before dawn, Shiv taking small comfort at the thought of the nicer cars that awaited her in the Hamptons. She supposed it was a practical choice with their pets in tow, especially given Mondale’s non-stop shedding. The dog lay on the floor between her two children, and under any other circumstances she’d rush to snap a picture. 

“Do you think Liam will understand enough to be upset that we’re not there in person?” 

“If he does he’ll only be a hair less mature than your older brothers,” Tom said, trying to crack a smile out of her. He didn’t know the answer, and that fact scared both of them. 

Shiv threw her head back against the seat, her hand flying to her rounded stomach. While she’d held herself together for her father’s funeral in the city, even managing to beat out some inbred aristocrats with a service at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, her efforts were soured as protesters mixed in with mourners. Adding insult to injury the bastard had made no request regarding where he wanted to be buried, because what octogenarian would ever take a minute to think about that, and Connor being a sentimental dipshit suggested he be buried next to his mother in Dundee. She hadn’t loved the idea of dragging her two jet-lagged preschoolers across the Atlantic to say goodbye to their Grandpa for a second time, but the others liked it so much she was willing to make the logistics work. 

That plan came to a halt when she went to clear it with Dr. Glenn as a formality only for her to immediately shut it down because of her “high risk geriatric twin pregnancy.” She’d just turned 37 damn it! 

Twins. She was a few months away from being a mother of four, like some damned Republican. She was only planning on one more, a “tie breaker” as Tom had gleefully suggested as they watched Liam and Josie nap on the sectional one lazy Sunday afternoon, their daughter’s thick strawberry-blonde hair fanning across the throw pillow. Apparently her decrepit uterus was trying to get rid of as many eggs as possible. Tom had been euphoric that fateful day at the ultrasound appointment, kissing her harder than when they’d conceived. Her stomach had quickly become a fixation for the whole family, a place for them to rest their heads. Shiv was shell-shocked, but when she went to visit her Dad two days before he was scheduled for a routine laparoscopic lung procedure, she’d told Logan, their wide, crooked smiles mirroring one another at the news. She’d even shown him a picture of the Christmas stocking swaddlers Tom bought to bring them home in, since she was likely to deliver in December, and she was given a rare compliment about the man she married. 

It was the last conversation she’d ever have with him. Shit, she was probably expected to host Christmas now. 

“Shiv, baby, what can I do to help you?” 

She heard her husband’s voice penetrate the airwaves, over the sound of her own crying. She was crying, audibly, she now realized, and immediately began trying to calm herself down for the sake of her kids. She couldn't stomach the thought of them seeing her like this. They were half-awake now, still groggy courtesy of a cloudy morning, and Shiv wondered if this was a moment they’d discuss in therapy when asked about early memories of their mother. 

“Take them inside, please,” she stammered, her voice watery. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

To her surprise, Tom obeyed her request without protest, and she quickly found herself alone in the van. She managed to quiet herself down, but the hot tears and shaky breathing intensified. She tasted copper in her mouth, a sure sign of an impending nosebleed. They happened all the time these days, a convenient side effect of the insane blood volume associated with a twin pregnancy. She reached for her purse to grab a tissue only for blood to gush down her face and onto the floor, her hands trembling at the site. Grabbing one, she reclined her seat and wondered if she could will herself back asleep, watch Kendall’s crocodile tear tribute later. As her mind begins to drift she feels hands on her face; ridiculously large, warm hands. Tom’s hands, pinching the bridge of her nose and dabbing blood off her face. She looked at him in surprise. 

“You didn’t actually think I’d let you suffer alone out here?” He asked. 

She could barely move, so he lifted her from the passenger seat and carried her into the house. Tall and solid, he seemed to enjoy using his wife’s pregnancies as weightlifting challenges, hoisting her up every chance he got. Not once had she ever felt unsafe in his arms.

He ushered them into their bedroom, their children already tucked under the covers eating Pop-Tarts. She can’t remember ever sleeping in her parents’ bed, definitely never eating there. It seemed like a good sign. A glass of the custom-formulated pre-natal smoothie Tom had talked her into, costing about $40 a serving, sat on her nightstand, lovingly presented with an crazy straw and a cocktail parasol. She began taking small sips, realizing how hungry she was. Depleted. 

She turned her attention to the television, a beautiful blonde ATN anchor reporting live from outside the chapel. Liam, she noticed, was watching intently, his brow furrowed. 

“Hey, you guys want to feel your brother and sister kick?” She wished she had a better means of addressing grief than sheer redirection, but she only had a few tools in her arsenal and her status as a broodmare was apparently one of them. Josie scooted over immediately, placing her half-eaten Pop-Tart atop her mother’s stomach and resting her head, crumbs strewn all over. She held her tighter. 

Liam looked at them inquisitively, his expression one of despondence. She’d seen almost the exact look on Tom only a few times over the course of their marriage, in their darkest hours, and meeting his gaze she could see flickers of Kendall. She thought she might break down again. 

Adjusting her and Josie into a sitting position, she used her free arm to reach for Liam, relieved when he took her by the hand. 

“Do you want me to turn the TV off?” She asked, and he eventually nodded. He’d been stoic since the funeral, seemingly saying as few words as he could possibly manage, even with both his parents prompting him. While her relationship with her father would remain both horrifying and tender in death, her children’s story was wholly different. They were Grandpa Logan’s second chance at a third generation successor. A new and improved chance, as far as he was concerned, by virtue of the fact that they grew inside the body of a true blue Roy. They adored him, as she had at their age, not having reached the point that his love became conditional. She was grateful that their memories of them would be positive, thinking of Iverson’s discomfort as Waystar sad sacks extolled his praises, but anguished watching their innocent minds try to make sense of death. 

She sat in comfortable silence with both her children, rubbing circles into Liam’s tiny hand. She noticed that Josie had begun to suck her thumb, as she had throughout the entire funeral, and like that day Shiv decided to let it be. There was nothing she could do to remedy the situation, no pie in the sky clichés she could genuinely offer up, and few stories happy and simple enough to reminisce about.

But she could be there for them, in her own specific way. In a way that wasn’t saccharine but was sincere, genuine. 

Yes, she could do that.


End file.
